Trust
by darkwinggirl
Summary: His lips are ever-so-slightly swollen, and his pupils are wide; to Ziggy, these miniscule changes transform Dillon utterly. Not a hair out of place, no hard breathing, no smile, but somehow he looks windblown and glowing.


When Dillon releases him from the kiss, all Ziggy manages to say - though he stammers, wheedles, and false starts it into a sentence that lasts a good twenty seconds - is, "That was unexpected!"

"Was it?" Dillon asks.

Monosyllabic as usual. Expression schooled, unreadable, as usual. But there are cracks in the facade. His lips are ever-so-slightly swollen, and his pupils are wide; to Ziggy, these miniscule changes transform Dillon utterly. Not a hair out of place, no hard breathing, no smile, but somehow he looks windblown and glowing. Fresh out of the dryer.

That look, like the kiss, leaves Ziggy numb with shock. He'd been honest: a kiss was the LAST thing he could have expected from Dillon - the manliest man he knows, the stone cold machine, the chick magnet.

They're alone in the garage; Dillon has him practically pinned on the hood of the Pontiac. Ziggy's seated there like a kid in a high chair, lower legs dangling, through no fault of his own. The second they were left together after mission debriefing, Dillon hauled him up without a word, placed him on the hood, cradled the back of his head, and brought their lips together in an action so natural, so confident, Ziggy had automatically opened his mouth to meet it. In seconds, the kiss had hardened into something nearly brutal, all tongue and crushing strength and frantic grasping.

Ziggy had briefly feared suffocation. Now, free to catch his breath, he doesn't know _what_ he feels.

Dillon's hands are on his waist - _inside_ his shirt, Ziggy notes, and his heart jolts diagonally in his chest like a frightened, confused pigeon.

As if he senses Ziggy's thoughts, Dillon moves his hands: ghosts the tips of his fingers an inch higher, lets his warm palms rest on the cool skin of Ziggy's stomach.

The size of his hands is intimidating. Ziggy becomes acutely aware of the narrowness of his own waist, pelvis, ribcage. Since becoming a Ranger, he's felt taller, and he's put on about five pounds of (what he's pretty sure is) muscle. He's been picturing himself as a hearty superhero, a match for Scott and Flynn at least. Maybe stronger than them!

Nope. His fantasy self-image, so well-constructed, so cherished and believed-in, blows away like fog under the slight brush of air from Dillon's nostrils. He's tiny. And Dillon's built like a brick shithouse.

What's that noise? Is he still stammering?

"I just, I just, I just…"

Though he can still speak - he can always speak - physically, he's frozen. A minute has already ticked by without him summoning a clear reaction, positive or negative. Dillon's left eyebrow rises, perhaps in amusement, while his thumbs circle on Ziggy's abs.

Ziggy, who can hear his own heartbeat, realizes all his senses have sharpened, probably due to adrenaline. Colors in the garage pop; the clean lines of Dillon's shoulders are in razor definition. His body heat is nearly visible. Ziggy _understands_ , as he hadn't a moment ago, that a man twice his weight, with hybrid strength to boot, has settled himself between his legs, and that if the man in question decides to kiss him again, to rake his hands over his chest again, press him on his back on the curved, yet somehow sharp metal hood of the Pontiac again, Ziggy will have absolutely no say in the matter.

"You with me, Zig? You okay?"

"Yu-huh!" Ziggy yelps. "Just...processing. I mean… I mean, wow! Yowsa! Surprising! I'm not...I'm not a hundred percent sure about, well, what exactly your... your plan is here...but, I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm fully open-minded, I'm happy to consider... It's just, like, I haven't had the time to...fully..."

Dillon's thumbs dig into his hips a little, just a little, but Ziggy yelps again. It's as if Dillon has turned twin startup keys. The frozen numbness vanishes. Electricity and blood flow freely all at once, and his cock _leaps_ to life, straining violently in his jeans. It's _painful_. He gasps, helpless, overwhelmed. His thighs try to bring themselves together; instead, of course, they squeeze Dillon's waist.

Dillon leans into it, all strength and confidence, with a low chuckle, and his breath is hot on Ziggy's neck. His tongue brushes against the juncture of Ziggy's jaw and ear - holy shit. The sensation is _stunning_. Hot and wet and soft, and a tiny bit tickly. Ziggy's hands flutter, his eyelids flutter, his breath and voice flutter - is he still babbling? He's hard as a fucking jackhammer. When did his life take _this_ turn?

"Relax," Dillon whispers. His breath sends frissions across Ziggy's neck, down his spine, straight to his dick. "Or don't. But shut up. Fuck, Ziggy."

As his tongue drills into that sensitive spot beneath the ear, Dillon's hand, flat against Ziggy's bellybutton, works its way lower, igniting every nerve along the way, until he's cupping Ziggy's crotch through rough denim. Ziggy's erection is so extreme, Dillon is able to feel out his whole length, trace an engorged vein, even get his hand halfway around the aching organ, right beneath the head. He squeezes.

Ziggy _squeals_. Practically comes in his pants.

And panics.

He flails, pushes Dillon away, and leaps off the hood of the car - or rather, he _tries_ to do all that, fails to move Dillon an inch, and then Dillon, after a moment's unreadable stare, stands back, allowing Ziggy to step down. Presumably Dillon doesn't mean to be threatening; it's not his fault Ziggy is no more able to throw him back than Summer would be able to throw back a tank.

"What's wrong?"

" _What's wrong?_ What do you think? Too much! Too too much! Too fast! You can't just spring this on a guy, Dillon! I mean, you're my friend, sure, but I never... _never_ …"

He can't think. He's hideously aware that his erection is tenting out the fly of his skinny jeans, and now he sees that Dillon's hard, too, - Jesus, the bulge in his pants is _right there_ , inches from him.

"I know you're a virgin, Ziggy. It's okay."

Again, Dillon steps in, but Ziggy flinches and holds up a hand; Dillon halts without retreating.

"I don't mean _that_!" Ziggy says, although, absolutely, that too. "I mean...I never thought that you...especially about _me_! I'm not saying you're out of my league, because you're not, you're really not. I'm attractive! Obviously! But you could have given me a clue-"

"Zig."

"Yes?"

"Think."

Ziggy swallows. "About what?"

"Me. And you."

When Ziggy helplessly blinks, Dillon sighs, lifts a hand to the side of Ziggy's face, forces him to make eye contact, and says, "There have been clues. Like, from day one."

God, the golden, clear brown of his irises is too much. Too warm, too intense. Ziggy has to close his eyes. And he thinks.

Thinks of how he met Dillon: the most foolhardy moment of his life. Here was a man who had just torn up a dozen Grinders - _torn them up_ , literally, with his bare hands - and Ziggy had thought his scrawny ass could hold him hostage with a fake gun.

Dillon should have killed him without effort. Instead, he'd saved him. Let him in his precious car. Sucked on a fucking lollipop in front of him… Wow, he really must not have been paying attention.

It was Dillon who had saved him in prison: beaten up tens of criminal toughs for an obnoxious, frazzle-haired guy he barely knew.

And how had Ziggy gotten out of prison? Dillon's request. His unnecessary, unprompted, unexpected request.

The moment when Ziggy had revealed himself as Ranger Series Green replayed in his mind: The unabashed horror on the faces of everyone in the room...except Dillon. No, Dillon had, in a rare moment of unguarded emotional display, looked one hundred per fucking cent _smug_. At the time, Ziggy had assumed he was pleased at the consternation of the straight-laced Ranger team. Now…

There were a hundred small moments, moments where Dillon had defended him, guided him, kept him safe and, above all, close.

Moments of physical contact he didn't grant the others. Claps on the shoulder. Pats on the head.

"Oh, huh," Ziggy says. "Yeah, I see it. What you mean. Clues." Then: "The shadow puppets meant _nothing_?"

Dillon stares. Smolders, really. God, he's good-looking. Ziggy has always been acutely aware of that, because who could help comparing themselves to their Greek god best pal?

"I'm not going to hurt you, Ziggy." Dillon lowers his head and a lock of hair flops perfectly in front of one eye. It has to be on purpose; the bastard knows how attractive he is. "We won't do anything you don't agree to."

He places his hands inside Ziggy's jacket, beneath his armpits. Ziggy thinks he's about to pull him in for another kiss, and his breath hitches in, oh God, _anticipation_ , but instead, Dillon's hands slide smoothly down his arms, removing his jacket.

"Gosh. Wow," says Ziggy, suddenly cold in his tight T-shirt.

Dillon runs his hands up and down Ziggy's arms, soothing the gooseflesh. Their chests are close together again, so close Ziggy feels sparks might leap between them at any moment, ignited by the circuitry he knows is ticking away within Dillon's burning flesh.

"Trust me," says Dillon.

Ziggy shivers.

Dillon seems to have calmed a little; he scans Ziggy up and down, and apparently, in spite of Ziggy's still-raging, obscene hard-on, doesn't find what he's looking for.

" _Do_ you trust me, Ziggy?"

What can Ziggy do?

He feels himself nodding. His hands splay and clench in the air; he's never been so nervous.

"I'll go slow," says Dillon. "It'll feel good. I promise." His lips brush Ziggy's, and it does, indeed, feel good. The tip of his tongue probes, tastes the inside of Ziggy's mouth until Ziggy lets out a soft moan. Dillon pulls back and whispers, "If you want me to stop, say the word, okay?"

"O-oh-oh.." Ziggy is now eye-to-eye with Dillon's collarbone. A few dark hairs are visible beneath it, where his muscular chest is barely covered by his thin black V-neck. It all looks...enticing. Huh. He's learned a lot about himself in the last few minutes. "Okay."

"You sure?"

Not at all. "Yes."

"Okay."

Oddly, now that he has permission to do so, Dillon doesn't pounce; instead, he exhales slowly, watching Ziggy's every twitch as if looking for guidance, and he hesitates before settling his fingertips on the bottom hem of Ziggy's shirt. When he curls his fingers, bunching the fabric, his knuckles brush against Ziggy's lower stomach, just above the line of his underwear, and Ziggy gets his second confirmation in as many minutes that that is definitely one of his extreme erogenous zones.

Dillon strips Ziggy's shirt off, tosses it aside without looking, and firmly plants his hands on Ziggy's lower back. He pulls himself close. Their crotches are pressed together now; the friction is unbearable. Ziggy's cock jumps in agony.

"Please," says Ziggy. He doesn't know what he's asking for.

Dillon drags one hand through Ziggy's wild hair. Kisses his forehead.

Ziggy thinks he couldn't feel more exposed if he were naked. Dillon, fully clothed, seems larger than ever as he leans in, lets his pecs press against Ziggy's hard, slight ribs, and dips his lips to Ziggy's shoulder.

"I've got you," Dillon whispers.

Then he kisses him just beneath the clavicle, in the little hollow where his shoulder and chest meet.

And he begins to suck.

His tongue works: gentle at first, a simple tasting, then harsher, rough, and the sucking intensifies.

Ziggy's hands, which have been extended to either side in a ridiculous display of bewilderment, drape lightly around Dillon's waist. The muscles there are tight, defined, stretching like ropes. Instinctively, Ziggy begins to knead his fingers into them, and Dillon responds with enthusiasm.

He grinds Ziggy against the car door, smashing their hips together, earning a moan of pleasure; his mouth works frantically, sucking at Ziggy's shoulder like it's one of his ridiculous lollipops, and when at last he pulls his mouth off with a sloppy sound like a freed plunger, he reveals he's left a dark, angry hickey.

That, Ziggy realizes, was his intention. He stares down at the mark, breathing hard.

Loving it.

"Jeez," he whispers in awe.

Dillon's expression is still guarded. "Was that bad?"

"N...no, I wouldn't say _bad_ , no, absolutely n-"

"Let's make you more comfortable, okay?"

Actually, Ziggy would prefer to be thrown up against the car again and get himself a few more of those hickeys, but his energy for arguing with this man - his best friend, who he trusts and who _clearly_ knows what he's doing - appears to have drained out along with the blood in his brain.

Dillon's fingers, dextrous as only a hybrid's can be, make quick work of Ziggy's belt buckle and zipper. There's a moment's pause before Dillon slides one long finger into the waistband of the plaid boxer shorts he's revealed. He runs it back and forth along the elastic, eyes on Ziggy's burning face, before finally freeing Ziggy's cock.

"Damn," Dillon says quietly. That look returns in force - the glow. He's radiating vitality. "Who'd have thought, huh?"

"I know!" squeaks Ziggy. His ego, after all, hasn't come from nowhere. He giggles and promptly hates himself.

But Dillon was right - he _is_ more comfortable without the zipper and elastic confining him.

Dillon grips his shoulders, holding him in place, examining him, contemplating his next move with infuriating calmness. Ziggy's pulse roars through his ears at the thought of what might come next here, and he has to remind himself that Dillon said he wouldn't hurt him.

He doesn't.

But he does go to his knees.

Holy shit. Holy holy holy shit.

His lips are a centimeter from Ziggy's cock, which stands rigid, bobbing up towards his navel. Ziggy's breath hitches.

"You'll come if I touch it, won't you," Dillon says, without adding a question mark. He raises his eyes, and at last he's letting emotion shine through in the tiniest quirk of his lips: Pride. Pleasure.

Ziggy realizes he might come if Dillon _speaks_ again near it.

Like a kindly king, Dillon shows mercy. He presses his lips not to Ziggy's cock, but to the soft skin to one side of it. He nips, just hard enough to give Ziggy a jolt, then soothes the faint tooth marks with his tongue.

He repeats the motion on the other side.

Then he gently blows cool air up and down Ziggy's cock.

It's wonderful. Calming. A brief respite from the severe heat he's generating.

Ziggy gains a little courage. He runs one hand, then the other, through Dillon's hair. It's silky and straight, unlike his own coarse, tangled mess. He wants to bury his face in it.

Dillon pulls Ziggy's pants down to his thighs, latches his lips onto Ziggy's hip, and begins his magic again. In no time, he's planted another vicious hickey. He then works his way up Ziggy's side, kissing, licking, nipping, until he's biting at Ziggy's armpit, and Ziggy could swear he honest-to-god _smiles_ when Ziggy proves to be ticklish as a toddler.

But the moment is brief, the position awkward, and Dillon resolves the tension by flipping him around.

Again, Ziggy finds himself bent over the car's hood, this time facing forward, and it's much more alarming than last time. Dillon's forearms are locked across his bare chest, and his crotch is lined up with Ziggy's ass. Ziggy's pants have fallen to his knees, trapping him further. Dillon thrusts twice, letting Ziggy feel his own impressive erection.

And once again, Ziggy's pleasure is overwhelmed by anxiety. He closes his eyes, braces himself, and lets out a slight gasp, but that's all. He tries to tell himself not to be a coward, not to screw this up. Still. It's scary.

Fortunately, Dillon appears to sense the change. His grip loosens. Ziggy feels soft wet lips between his shoulder blades, and then he's spinning; Dillon has turned him back around.

"Sorry," Ziggy mumbles. "Didn't quite - wasn't quite -"

"Ready," Dillon finishes. "I won't do that again. It's fine. You're fine. You're doing great."

He draws his tongue up Ziggy's neck, kisses and sucks at both his nipples, then pulls back and checks Ziggy's face again, tension visible in his neck and jaw. He frees him entirely.

Ziggy's trembling.

"Say something, Ziggy. Tell me you're okay."

Ziggy tries. Takes a deep breath. Another. He kicks off his shoes and socks, then shucks everything else. Yes, that's better. Though he's swaying a bit, he feels oddly safer naked, no longer tangled in his own clothing.

Dillon lifts a hand as if to steady him, then wavers and pulls it back. Has Ziggy ever seen him move that way: with doubt? What's that behind his hooded eyes? Worry?

Dillon's worried about him.

With that knowledge, Ziggy's personality at last begins to reassert itself.

"How many people are in this torrid affair, exactly?" he exclaims.

"What?"

"Two, right, that's how many!"

It's Dillon's turn to blink.

Ziggy pokes his chest. "You're making all the moves! I have moves too, you know!"

"Oh, really." The tension vanishes from Dillon's features. The haunting - haunt _ed_ \- intensity of his gaze lifts. He takes a good step back. Cocks his head, lifts his chin, raises his arms. "Show me."

 _There he is_ , Ziggy thinks. _I put that spark in his eye. I did that._ He flatters himself that the return of his normal bluster has set Dillon back on track in a moment when he'd lost the road.

"First of all," Ziggy says. "I'm at a disadvantage here. I mean -" He flicks at Dillon's jacket. "Come on. Fair's fair, big guy."

His fingers are shaking, but with Dillon's help, he gets the jacket off.

"And - and this." The shirt. "What even is this? What, can you not handle the heat in here?"

This time, Dillon doesn't let him help. He strips off his shirt in a single, one-armed move, and Ziggy's mouth goes dry. His train of thought derails.

How is it _possible_ for someone to be so well-built? For there to be so many miles of carved muscle, smooth skin, wide shoulders tapering gracefully to trim hips?

"Show-off," he mutters at last.

"Still waiting on those moves," Dillon returns.

Ziggy has none, of course: no plan, nothing, which is exactly what he's always had, and it's never slowed him down before.

Shoeless, he barely comes up to the combat-booted Dillon's chin. He has to reach way, way up to get his hands where he wants them. Dillon bends to accommodate him.

Ziggy pulls their foreheads together. Cards his fingers through that perfect, glossy hair, digs into it. Fuck, it's soft. It's heavenly. His thumbs roll over the ridges of Dillon's ears. He takes his time.

He opens his eyes to find Dillon's gaze boring into him. His pupils have swallowed the warm brown irises. He's breathing through his nose, as if to retain his self-control.

His expression is still stony, but Ziggy comes to the delightful realization that the man is _wrecked_.

 _Over me._

Ziggy's see-sawing emotions begin to heavily lean toward the positive side.

" _Do_ something," Dillon gasps.

This time, Ziggy initiates the kiss.

It's like him: Soft. Small. A little clumsy.

Dillon lets him set the pace. He doesn't move at all, in fact, except when Ziggy tugs him or prompts him. He lets the kiss go on and on, meeting Ziggy's tongue with the barest, gentlest motions. He lets Ziggy tentatively lick his jawline, rubbing his tongue along the stubble - a fascinating texture to Ziggy, who has never been able to grow facial hair. Dillon's arms hang loose at his sides, unnaturally so. Though he groans in agony when Ziggy kisses his way down his sternum, he clenches his fists and keeps his hands to himself.

Ziggy figures out what's going on pretty quickly. Dillon knows he overstepped. Now he's the one who's nervous - afraid to spook Ziggy, afraid that he's already gone too far, screwed this up for the both of them.

This is enormously comforting to Ziggy, even encouraging, and he takes full advantage of it.

He touches Dillon, just touches him, with both hands, like a concerned doctor, learning the shape of his abs and pecs, the depth of the muscle, how hard he can press before finding bone. How big around Dillon is. How lightly to brush against the skin to make it pebble, to make the sparse chest hair stand out a little more. He feels along the length of Dillon's collarbone, up the thick cords of his neck, back down to the thin trail of hair disappearing beneath his jeans.

Ziggy's heartbeat, pounding in his ears, has calmed a little. He knows Dillon will stop if he gets scared, and he's not exactly scared anymore. He thinks he's ready.

He fumbles at Dillon's belt buckle. Undoes it. Then the button, then the fly. Holding his breath, he tugs the underwear aside.

Dillon's cock is just what he might have expected if he'd ever contemplated the matter: perfect. Smooth and pale. Thick, especially towards the head. Ziggy tentatively skims his fingertips along its length. He touches the swollen head, the leaking slit. Dillon's already hard, but Ziggy can feel the organ straining further under his touch. He starts to wrap his hand around it.

And Dillon pulls the door off his own car.

They both freeze.

"Fuck!" cries Dillon.

He and Ziggy stare at each other, equally shocked, equally dumbfounded. The door must weigh fifty pounds, and Dillon's holding the stupid thing in the air like it's a cardboard pizza box. He'd grabbed at the handle for support, but his fingers went right into the metal, and here they are.

It takes him a second to shake it off; it tilts over sadly and rattles on the ground like a discarded garbage can lid. Ziggy giggles at the ridiculous sight, but Dillon watches the door settle, and the light in his eyes is gone.

Ziggy knows it's not about the car. Dillon can repair the car.

"That could have happened to anyone," Ziggy says quickly. "Venjix virus or not."

"Yeah," murmurs Dillon, tucking himself back in his pants. "Scott does it all the time."

"Hey!" says Ziggy. "Where were we?"

"Endangering your life, apparently."

"Oh, no no no!" says Ziggy. "We're not playing that game."

"Game?"

"Brooding over what a cyborg you are! We were - we were focusing on how attractive we find each other! Right?"

Dillon closes his eyes.

Ziggy rushes him.

He doesn't take Dillon by surprise, of course. The man, as he's just proved, is barely half human. Moment of crisis or not, his reflexes are too sharp to allow anyone to tackle him without his consent.

But he doesn't stop Ziggy, that's what matters. He even graciously folds a little at the moment of contact so Ziggy doesn't get hurt. He allows Ziggy to wrap his wiry arms around him and pillow his head on his chest, and swivel him side to side in a bear hug.

Dillon mulishly won't return the hug, so Ziggy grabs Dillon's arms and places them himself: one around his upper back, one around his lower. After a moment - and a sigh, possibly of defeat - Dillon gives a tentative squeeze; Ziggy reaches around behind himself and moves Dillon's lower hand down to his ass.

Dillon chuffs a laugh into Ziggy's hair.

"A minute ago you were freaked out," he whispers. "Then I lose control like that, and you're fine."

"I'm complicated," says Ziggy, listening to Dillon's strong, slow heartbeat. " _Complex_. Nuanced. Subtle. Mysterious. A man of layers, if you will. Levels. Secrets."

"Shut the fuck up."

They hold that position - Ziggy naked in Dillon's arms, Dillon in only his jeans, comfortable together, breathing and enjoying the contact - for just a moment, and then Flynn walks in.

"Heard a bang, everything arright?" he says, and then he actually looks at them, executes a perfect, dainty half-pirouette, and marches right back out the door.

The pair listen to his retreating steps, and manage to hold back their matching explosion of laughter until Flynn's almost out of earshot.

They laugh for a good thirty seconds, let it die, look at each other, and set themselves off again. Ziggy's stomach muscles are in actual pain. He slides out of Dillon's arms onto the cool concrete floor, and continues gasping, trying to contain the huge guffaws that keep leaping out of him, while he goes to work on Dillon's shoelaces.

Between the tears of mirth, the haze of pleasure, and Dillon's roaming hands, the next minutes are a little confusing, but Ziggy manages to get all Dillon's clothes off, stand up, and catch his mouth again.

The first time had been too hard; the second, too soft. The third is fucking Goldilocks. They've got it. The right amount of force and give, tongue, contact. The nakedness helps. They're pressed together, knees to sternum, cocks stacked, torsos flush. Ziggy draws his hands up and down Dillon's powerful thighs; Dillon can't seem to get enough of the planes of Ziggy's back, or enough handfuls of his small ass.

Ziggy's never kissed anyone, male or female, like this, and it occurs to him that in a sense, he might be Dillon's first as well. There's no way Dillon is actually a virgin, but he has no memories of relationships prior to a few months ago. Since then, he's only had eyes for Ziggy. It seems so obvious now, Ziggy feels like he's known it forever.

Dillon's kneading hands rake even lower, to the backs of Ziggy's thighs, and he suddenly lifts Ziggy, pulling him up so he's straddling the larger man's waist. Dillon's cock brushes the back of Ziggy's ass, but before Ziggy even has a chance to get tense, Dillon whispers into his mouth, "Don't worry, don't worry, I know. Give me a sec."

He carries Ziggy to the car, to the gaping hole left where the door used to be - the rear door - and lays Ziggy on the back seat, then proceeds to kiss him down into the threadbare cushion until Ziggy's sweating and helpless and grabbing at any part of Dillon he can reach in the confined space.

"Zig," gasps Dillon. He pauses, holding himself horizontally up over Ziggy with one arm so they're face to face; the free hand tangles itself in Ziggy's hair. For another man, that plank position might be a challenge, but Dillon hasn't broken a sweat. He does, however, look a bit desperate.

"Yes, ole buddy?" asks Ziggy brightly. He tries to hide the fact that he, unlike Dillon, is near exhaustion.

Dillon glances down between them. "Can I…? Or would it be too much?"

"Um," says Ziggy. "What do you want to-"

"To put your cock in my mouth. To blow you."

"Oh."

Dillon grits his teeth.

Ziggy lets him suffer a few seconds before struggling up onto his elbows, planting a close-mouthed kiss on Dillon's frown, and saying, "I'd like that."

The wolfish expression that slams onto Dillon's features almost changes his mind, but it's too late now.

As Dillon kisses his way straight down the center of Ziggy's torso, Ziggy gasps, "I hope you know it won't last very - ohhhh my god."

Then all he can do is lie back, gasp, and moan.

Dillon, the computer-enhanced son of a bitch, apparently has total control of his gag reflex. Ziggy's erection has slightly flagged, but he knows he's still quite a bit larger than average, and Dillon swallows his whole length in an instant. Ziggy feels himself curve down Dillon's throat.

It's hot, tight, wet, and aggressive. Dillon seems to be starving for it. He pulls back, lets cool air hit Ziggy's wet cock for a fraction of a second, then plunges down again, and again, and again, a centimeter or so deeper each time.

Ziggy's cock swells, jumps, twitches in the back of Dillon's throat. He's once more harder than it's possible to be, he's going to die, to explode, he can't take it anymore-

He bucks up, gasping, and grabs Dillon's ears like handlebars; he holds on for dear life. He's not strong enough to budge Dillon's neck or even to force back his head as he screams and comes, and comes, and comes, deep in Dillon's throat.

As the wild, hot spurts wrack Ziggy's whole body, Dillon mercilessly pumps him, working his tongue and lips as he swallows every drop. His face is buried deep in Ziggy's stomach.

Ziggy collapses - tries to rise - collapses again - and still Dillon doesn't release him. Instead, he pushes forward, sliding Ziggy further into the car until he's seated against the driver's side door, bent sweating and gasping over Dillon's back.

Dillon takes his time licking Ziggy's cock clean. Ziggy is able to sit and watch in awe, trying to catch his breath, while Dillon takes in every inch of him over and over as if desperate for more, then at last pops his lips free only to set to work sucking on Ziggy's balls like they're hard candy.

It's a while before he tires of it, or at least before he realizes it would be impolite to continue. Dillon lightly rests his head on Ziggy's flat stomach, chuckles, and mutters, "Thank fuck you said yes. I've needed that for a while."

He turns his focus to Ziggy's face again at last.

 _God,_ Ziggy thinks.

How can Dillon be better looking now than when they started? How are his features fuller, his eyes brighter, his skin more radiant?

 _He's happy_.

Ziggy's not, not entirely, and Dillon catches it right away. "What's wrong? You didn't like it?"

"Ah, I liked it quite a bit," Ziggy says. "A lot."

"Then…?"

"Just hope you know I can't… I can't do that. What you just did. I mean, I can try, if you want, but I'm pretty sure that's a bit beyond my...my current… skill set?"

Dillon exhales. Ziggy's pretty sure he's relieved by that answer.

"I know," says Dillon. "You don't need to. I'm good. I'm fantastic."

"I mean, I want to, kind of." Ziggy feels his voice rising. He's getting shrill in his embarrassment. "But-"

"Give me your hand," says Dillon.

Ziggy gives him his hand. It's about all he can lift at this point; even his head is bobbing weakly.

The car creaks as Dillon repositions himself, ending up on his knees between Ziggy's legs. Their faces are almost touching.

Dillon's cock juts up between them, ramrod straight.

He places Ziggy's hand on it.

"Stroke," he says. "And watch. I'm almost there."

Ziggy strokes from the base of Dillon's cock to the tip. The skin is silky, but the pulsing blood beneath it has turned it to iron. To Ziggy, it's fascinating. He runs his hand up and down it, again and again, and watches it redden, watches precome leak out the tip.

Ziggy finds the energy to raise his other hand. He wraps both his fists around Dillon's cock and gently moves up and down, up and down, then squeezes.

"God damn it," Dillon growls.

"Should I stop?" asks Ziggy.

"If you do, I'm gonna tear the roof off the car."

"Ah. Well then."

At last, Ziggy lets his right hand grip and pump in earnest. Fast, hard, eager.

Dillon lets out a string of phrases so filthy Ziggy is practically shaken loose by his own laughter, but he manages to follow instructions and _watch_.

He watches as jets of Dillon's hot, white semen spurt violently across his chest and up his neck. Watches Dillon's cock spasm in his hand for several seconds after it's over.

Watches Dillon's incredible face as he allows himself to bliss out before pulling back, giving Ziggy a bit of breathing space and letting him pull himself into a more comfortable position.

Eventually, they end up sitting side-by-side in the back seat, facing forward. They're still naked, but it's a casual, lazy nakedness now. No pressure, no worship, just soft, warm, safe skin.

Dillon throws an arm around Ziggy's shoulders. Ziggy, spent, bonelessly melts into Dillon's armpit. He feels sleep creeping up on him - or rather, pounding up the street toward him wearing brass knuckles.

"What are they others going to say?" he murmurs.

"K already knows," says Dillon. "About me, anyway. She's more observant than you. She won't be surprised."

"Scott will."

"Scott sure will."

"And Summer. I kind of thought you and her…"

Dillon strokes his hair. "Don't stress, Ziggy. Summer will be fine."

"They'll still like us, right?"

"Still?"

Ziggy closes his eyes.

Dillon sighs. "If they don't, then I'll tell 'em they can't have any more of those flying fucks I'm always handing out. And if they do, they can join us one of these times. Only if you want. Anything you want."

"Mmm," says Ziggy. That idea's too big for his tired brain.

He knows Dillon's not tired. Dillon doesn't get tired. No matter how much he likes to pretend otherwise, Ziggy will always be smaller, weaker, more frightened, more uncertain than Dillon.

What is Dillon doing here? What does he see in Ziggy?

A terrible thought: The only sense in which Ziggy is superior to Dillon is that Dillon is dying. Oh, his heart will beat forever, but the virus will kill him in every way that matters, and soon.

How soon? It's much more important to know now than it was half an hour ago.

How can this work?

"Stop worrying," says Dillon. "Sleep. I've got you."

He always has, hasn't he? There must be a reason.

"Wake me if there's a fight," Ziggy says. "Always ready to help."

He falls asleep thinking: _I can do this._

Sure he can.

Dillon thinks he can, and he trusts Dillon.

* * *

Thank you for reading. Always review. XOXO - darkwinggirl

P.S. This story now has a sequel called "Test", which can be found on my profile.


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